


Fog Over the Silver River

by aelur



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23855131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelur/pseuds/aelur
Summary: 10 years after the events at the Opera Garnier, Christine Daeé, the wife of Vicomte Raoul de Chagny and former soprano, gets an invitation to perform at the opening night of the newly built Teatro Colón in Buenos Aires, Argentina.My take on an alternate version of Love Never Dies set in the Paris of South America, in the romantic era of the old guard of tango.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 9
Kudos: 27





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So like many I finally watched Love Never Dies on the youtube livestream the other day, which prompted a thousand discussions at home over why/how the plot sucks. 
> 
> I don't like the "freak show" aspect of LND because I think it completely breaks with the romanticism and the gothic aspects of the original novel (althought I liked the aesthetic elements of it, I just don't think it's the best option for a sequel). I thought it would be nicer to put the Phantom in the New World but in Buenos Aires, at the height of the mass migration of europeans (about 2 million people arrived to the country in the years before and after 1905, when LND is set), a time where the city is turning into this beautiful Paris lookalike while keeping the "wild frontier" aspects of an "underpopulated" country (actually it was a mass replacement as indigenous people were massacred to "free up land" in Patagonia to sell to foreigners). It's also prime time for what we call the "Vieja Guardia" (old guard) of Tango, which is a wave of incredible composers that shaped tango into the romantic, beautiful sound it is today. 
> 
> A lot of this I hope will be fleshed out in the fic proper but some words of warning:  
> \- Erik is written as Eric in this fic on purpose. As people arrived from all parts of Europe it wasn't uncommon for government officials to mangle their names or write the equivalent spanish name (Guillaume was written down as Guillermo, a surname like Peixoto might be written down as Peichoto, etc).   
> \- There'll be period accurate racism. For the americans, this isn't so much about black vs white etc because the story of slavery and racism in latin countries is entirely different but at the time the aristocracy referred to indigeneous people as "savages" and carried out "wars" against them. The european immigrants was brought to the country to basically help "fight against" indigenous people by settling in the country side (in a classic example of white population violently replacing indigenous population). This won't be a major theme but just a word of warning that europeans settlers at the time would've referred to the indigenous population as "savages" or "uncivilized". I don't share that opinion at all but I tend to write in a personalized third person form anyway so yeah. It might pop up in conversation.   
> \- This story is not a "rewrite" of LND but I'll borrow some elements from it. 
> 
> Finally, I've made a playlist if you want to listen to some of the songs I had in mind while writing this, to help you with ambience. I'll be updating it with more songs as I go along and continue writing :)  
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLEyczJ0oeBr8zuEsuuQ5g5faTtd6tBi4l

The sharp turns of the bandoneón strike into his heart. The voice of the singer slowly eases him into the nostalgia of what once was. Beyond the lights of the bar there’s fog, and beyond the fog there’s a cold, muddy river that once had been made of silver. Surrounding him there’s a dozen of young men, all fresh out of the ships bleeding the hopeful poor out of Europe and into the New World. Their jovial faces fill him with a sweet bitterness, and like a father who hears a child pontificate about how the world works, he can’t help but anticipate the moment they’ll learn better.

This land is strange, unlike any he’s ever been to. Europe, Persia, India... their cities and villages rest upon a thousand books full of history. Children are raised on the stories of those who came before him, growing like trees on a thick bed of fertile ground. Buenos Aires, on the other hand, is a frontier, a land haunted only by the ghosts of the uncivilized; a flat, endless prairie larger than many a European state. There’s nothing to feed the newborn except tales from the old continent, and because of that every man and every woman in the city is condemned to live a life of constant longing for what’s beyond the ocean.

It’s the perfect purgatory for him. Underneath every cobblestone on the prime, fresh streets, there lies both the comfort of a new slate, of a fresh beginning, and the pain of sacrificing the old. He’s not a young man so he can feel the latter more strongly than the former, and yet there’s also something sweet in it for him. He can relish in his longing for one Paris opera house, where both love and loneliness, happiness and pain were all granted merely for what it left him with: a secret hope that maybe their paths would cross again.

As the singer finishes the song with a soft “ _adiós”_ , the music pauses briefly before picking up a different tune, one that he’s heard before. In _tango_ he thinks he’s found a friend. Popular music has never been of his liking; that _chanson_ _francaise_ grates his ears with its loudness. To him it sounds like a man who shouts to give strength to his unrefined arguments, instead of trying to hit the right notes at the right times. But this strange new world music, as popular as it is, is not loud at all: instead, it relishes in its subtlety, it seduces with its silences. So many of its lyrics are tinted with the blueish glint of an old man’s regrets, yet the sharp turns of the bandoneón give it a strange vitality, and people _dance_ to it. How miraculous was this land where all the rules of the Old World were broken and _people danced to silence_? 

Perhaps he was being partial, and his judgment was not moved by his knowledge of composition, but rather by the spirit of the music. Tango was a cry of loneliness, a feeling he was very intimate with. As he improved his knowledge of that bizarre Spanish the locals spoke, mixed with Yiddish, German, Italian and garbled bits of his native French, he came to know that he wasn’t alone in his suffering, and many a composer had put lyrics to the sad reality of his existence. In Opera he’d always felt like a lesser man among the epic, awe-inspiring heroes of tragedies; the sublime nature of the genre left little space for the ugly little men like him. Devils like him were cast aside, not given even the dignity of a villanous role; they were meant to be imps to be scoffed at, a mere adornment to highlight the beauty of the music by contrast.

Tango, however, was the song of the ugly, lonely men.  And by the gods, how vindicated he felt in this little world, where he was one in many. So vindicated, in fact, that he ventured out in his mask, ready to fend off the questions about his bizarre appearance, just to listen to it. 

_“...yet God brought you to my destiny without thinking that it’s too late, and I won’t know how to love you. Let me cry like one who suffers in life the torture of lamenting their own death. Pure as you are, you had saved my hope with your love. A man is so lonely in his pain... A man is so blind in his lament... But the cruel cold, that is worse than hate, horrendous tomb of my love, cursed me forever and stole all this illusion...”_

_Eric_ , who had been known once as the mysterious  _phantom_ that haunted the Opera Garnier, put his glass down and walked out of the dark, small bar. It was a clear spring night, and the blue flowers of the jacarandaes gathered in the curb and between the cobblestones of the empty street.  As he made his way to the new  _Teatro Colón_ , the opera house  _he_ had built, he thought about the upcoming opening. The fresh, sweet smell of spring air can give a man ideas that he wouldn’t normally entertain; so after his walk, he sat down in front of his secreter, and penned a number of letters. He’d been asked, of course, if he could bring any of the talent he’d been acquainted with in Paris to perform for the grand opening of the national opera house, which would be playing a piece by Verdi. The local bureaucracy had far grander ideas about his previous life than he’d ever communicated with them, but it was easy to fool them, and easier  still to take advantage of it. 

Ten years had passed  since the fateful night where his Christine had both saved and buried him alive. As she’d taken his lips in hers, a hope had been ignited: could it be, perhaps, that his loneliness had turned him uglier than his deformity? Could it be that, by letting her go he was leaving his former self go as well, perhaps in order to construct something greater? 

If he saw Christine again, after ten years, could he be now enough of a man to finally hold her in his arms? 


	2. A Vicomtesse Receives Some News

As she re-read the letter in her hands, a certain numbness took hold of one Christine De Chagny, a woman most commonly known as _la_ _vicomtesse_ by those who frequented the fashionable salons of Paris. Her maid, a lovely breton girl who’d arrived to the city of light just two years before, did not notice the change in her mood as she came to take the linen for a wash. And how could she? Christine, by force of the status that had been conferred upon her the moment she took her husband’s ring in her hand, had had plenty of time to learn the art of masquerading her feelings. Whether it was for the sake of surviving the indignity of a snide comment from her husband’s family or to bear the brunt of the incisive questioning of the parisian aristocracy regarding the events that had taken place at the Opera Garnier, Christine De Chagny, neé Daee, had brought her performance skills into the confined, softly-lit golden cage of her every day life. 

“Mistress, monsieur Pitois wanted me to ask whether the vicomte will be dining here tonight? He’s preparing an order to be sent to the butcher, and he wants to know if he should get some of that  sirloin that the master loves so much.”

Christine turned around, smiling at the girl. Berthe was around the same age she’d been when she’d married Raoul. With that letter that felt like a burning fire in her hands, it was impossible for her not to seek the past in the young woman’s face, one that was devoid of the little wrinkles that had begun to show in hers. The crackles of ten years of meandering nothingness had dimmed that fresh, sparkling look that she’d had when she, like Berthe, had been at the prime of her life.

As she shared her husband’s plans for the night with the girl, she wondered what her dreams were. She’d arrived to Paris like many a girl from her country, looking for employment, trying to carve a good life for herself. But beyond food and shelter, what were her passions? Did she love dancing, admiring as she was of Christine’s timid figures as the mistress of the house practiced what little routines she’d learnt from her friend Meg at the Opera? Did she love playing house, fussing after monsieur Pitois, hoping for a life at his side? Would she be happy, ten years down the line, if she stayed a simple house maid? 

Christine turned around and stored the letter in a compartment in her desk.

“Please send for Jaques, if you can,” she asked Berthe before the girl left the room. What difference did it make for a servant girl to have a dream?  They were all beholden to the master of the house, after all. 

“Mistress,” Jaques, their butler, announced his presence in the same polite, dull tone she’d grown used to over the course of the years as he came into the parlor. Like all old-fashioned, experienced servants, he held his tongue until spoken to, in a manner she would’ve guessed similar to her late father-in-law.  She was standing, looking around the room as she tried to picture the rearrangement of the busy interior into something that could fit her design for the evening.

“Jaques, would you think it would be unrealistic for me to have the piano brought here? I was thinking that it could fit nicely in this corner, provided we move the ottoman and the vase.”

“It is certainly possible, mistress,” the ever-helpful butler commented. “But I must mention, the master would be perturbed at the change. He’s very proud of how this particular room looks.”

Christine said nothing. Ten years had done little to ease the respectful distance the butler kept with her, and although never too unpleasant, he made sure to constantly remind her that he’d been a butler for the Chagny family long before she’d become part of it. And it was difficult to assert her place there, in that maison that had all of her husband’s touch and none of hers. She’d arrived as a passing fancy, in the eyes of family, of their servants, and like such she’d passed over the duties that would’ve befallen the role she actually played – it was a mistress’ duty, after all, to care for the trifle things like house decoration, the arrangement of the entertainment  for their soireés,  the spending... yet Raoul had insisted on handling all of that, unimpeded by her weak half-protests. In that house Raoul had taken, gladly, both roles as mistress and mister, and she was but a mere ghost, another decoration among the Beaux Art friezes that decorated the building. 

“ Madame Guizot has been very insistent on hearing my singing,” Christine finally said. “I can’t deny her any longer.”

Jaques nodded, and left to gather the servant boys who would take on the monstrous task of moving the instrument. It had become second nature for her to mask her desire behind the requests of polite society, as she found that her whims had a lot less power than the whims of those who lived outside her house. Regrettably, no man or woman from the bourgeoisie, or the nobility, had ever asked her to continue with her singing, so she’d contented herself to the little crumbs offered by those party tricks she performed, an aria or two from _la_ _vicomtesse de l’Opéra Garnier_. 

Later that night, i t was Madame Guizot’s turns to throw those crumbs on the table. Christine was fortunate enough to have the space for not just one, but two small pieces as she  first  intoned  the Liebestod from Tristan und Isolde, a n aria she’d recently discussed with the gentlelady. 

“ _Do you not feel and see it?”_ Isolde cried out, over Tristan’s body. “ _Do I alone hear this melody so wondrously and gently sounding from within him. I_ _n bliss lamenting, all-expressing, gently reconciling, piercing me, soaring aloft, its sweet echoes resounding about me?”_

The song fluttered upwards, as Isolde herself, embodied in Christine’s voice, transfigured herself into the extasis of her own song. It was a miracle that went unseen in the small candlelit parlor, as her audience appreciated her talents with the polite smile of one who’s had a pastry too sugary for dessert. When a person is in the mood for banality, there is little they expect except mundanity, and there’s seldom they will recognize as going beyond that. Christine pretended not to notice. 

“That was as beautiful as one could expect from a prima donna!” exclaimed  one of her guests, a business associate of her husband. 

“It’s so tragic that you had to leave all that behind!” said another, a friend of her mother-in-law. “If the ladies and gentlemen present here were to know of the events that caused your early retirement, oh, what a sad night they’d have tonight!”

Christine knew then that she would not get to sing her second aria of the night. Her old party trick would have to do, instead.

“Monsieurs Labrouste, Vaudoyer, I don’t think you know the story,” Madame Guizot said, “ Perhaps we could hear of it again, vicomtesse?”

Across the room from her, Raoul’s eyes flashed. Christine knew that even if everything else fell apart around them, there was still the certainty that in the reminiscence of one Opera and its ghost, they were together. She knew that their hauntings were vastly different, but the very fact of their presence in their lives comforted her a little, particularly during the nights when she thought that nothing could ever bridge the distance that had grown between them in those ten years.

“I remember the newspapers,” exclaimed monsieur Labrouste, excited at the prospect of the ghostly tale. “The horror of the Phantom of the Opera.”

Fate had a funny way of making herself known so late into the game, or so Christine thought. Even if there was no letter burning in her hands she felt the fire all the same as she spoke of the events a decade prior, when she confused a man with an angel and let the music of the night take her.  Her audience gasped appropriately, with the predictability and timeliness of a clock striking the hour. It was, for them, a gallant tale, almost too adventurous to be true. Their hosts were reduced to little paper cutouts, their faces profiled by the shallow lines of a cartoon illustration, as Christine’s “my”s, and “I”s were translated in their minds to “hers” and “she”. One woman’s memory  was another’s legend; a fact she’d become accustomed to after years of retelling her version of the events.

In the editorializing that had developed through the copious retellings, Raoul had emerged as the perfect romantic hero, rescuing her at the last minute from the villainous, monstrous Phantom. It was a strange evolution that she doubted the more she told the story, and the increasing intensity of his role in the events had begun to worry her, as if it was yet another symptom of the untruthfulness of her own day to day. If the man himself noticed anything, he didn’t let her know, and instead let her continue the tale as he stood silently in the back of the room. 

It was strange, and sometimes this thought snuck into her consciousness as she indulged her friends and acquaintances, that Raoul had always let her own the narrative of what had transpired in the Opera. She’d never been made to feel like she owned her house, or even her dresses, but he’d graciously conceded her the memories they both shared. Perhaps it was as an apology for having whisked her away from her days as a soprano, and if it was, it was one that she felt rather effective. He never discussed the Phantom with her, never spoke up during their soireés when it’d be brought up; even went to great lengths to change the subject should a question be directed at him. It was clear at this point that what happened was up to Christine to decide, content as he was to never engage with those memories. 

“ What kind of man was he, the Phantom? ”  monsieur Vaoudoyer asked. 

It wasn’t the first time she had been asked that question, and simply by virtue of repetition she’d learnt the answer by heart. Normally the one-liner would come out without her even thinking about it, but that night wasn’t a normal night and the peculiarity of it was force enough to stall her automaton response. 

“He... he was many things. A genius, most of all,” she said, caught by surprise at her own hesitation. 

“I read that he was hideous, horribly deformed.”

“ It was something that he felt separated him from the rest of humanity,” Christine supplied. “He was forced as a child to take part in freak shows, and was poorly treated.”

“Ah, vicomtesse, surely you must be acquainted with the science that the great Fowler writes about? There’s clearly little that can’t be told about a man  at first glance;  and with an specimen born with the deformity of one such as your Phantom it is plain to see that Fowler’s science is vindicated by it. Evil does as evil looks!”

Christine pressed her lips together, but said nothing. Her disagreement must’ve shown in her face, as the devilish Madame Guizot wondered out loud, “perhaps the vicomtesse is not partial to that science, monsieur Vaoudoyer.”

“The body holds more than brain and blood, monsieur, that’s what I believe,” Christine said. “Our faces grow old, we wither and shrink with age, losing our youth and our beauty, yet our hearts remain the same. Sometimes, the heart grows stronger, bigger. If it was true that ugliness was a sign  of evil, then  you must forgive me if I say that I’ve seen evil kinder than any good.”

Monsieur Vaoudoyer drew back, at a loss for words. Christine maintained her pleasant expression as the conversation moved onto a slightly different topic. Raoul joined in vigorously, as if his wife’s retelling of the Opera events had never happened. He took the center stage as the night progressed, and Christine, as usual, let him shine.

“ I think our guests were rather surprised by your story tonight, ”  Raoul said, after their duties as hosts had ended. Christine was brushing her hair by her vanity, dressed down to her nightgown. “They didn’t expect you to be  so  protective over the villain of the story.”

Christine turned around. Raoul was still fully clothed, but the buttons of his chemise were partly undone. He’d been drinking with the men until they left, and had only just come into the bedroom.

“ It is a story at this point, isn’t it?” she said casually. “Does it matter if it’s told in different ways?”

Raoul kept his silence as he slowly began to undress. Christine watched him go through the same motions she saw every other night,  her mind resting in the comfort of absolute emptiness. By virtue of contrast, she now realized that she’d spent the entire evening enveloped by a certain frenzy, an expectation that something would happen amidst polite smiles. She had hoped, perhaps, for a revelation to strike her. It never did; it was, instead, a slow, sinking feeling that had gathered at the bottom of her mind, distilled from ten years of stray fantasies. 

“I received a letter today,” she said, finally. “It came from Buenos Aires.  Monsieur Jules Dormal says they’re finishing their Opera, and he wants me to perform for the opening. ”

Raoul sat on the edge of the bed, looking tired. “Dormal? That belgian we met in Monte Carlo?”

“Remember how appreciative he was of my Aida?  He says he has yet to hear someone who can match my arias. ” Christine could barely recognize her own voice. Her giddiness was almost childish; ten years had been lifted from her shoulders. Opera Garnier’s surprise prima donna was once again inhabiting her skin, flush with the promise of the stage lights. “ Buenos Aires! Wouldn’t that be exciting? Madame Puig was so enamoured with it! ”

“ Christine, my love,” Raoul’s tired voice broke through her excitement, “you know there’s little I would deny you, but this hardly comes at a good time. With the mill going out of business, the rent from Loudoun affected by drought, and that damned shipwreck, I must stay here to look after our finances.”

“ How so? You spend most of your time writing letters to various people, and writing orders to your clerks to wire money to so-and-so; it is the same to them whether you do it from here or from a teletyper in Buenos Aires! I’d venture to say, even, that it’d get to them faster if sent across the ocean!” Christine joined her husband at the foot of their bed. “Monsieur Dormal says that he will arrange the details of our travel. He’s offered me  fifteen thousand francs as well, as payment for a month’s performances. And I doubt that a man of his position would not be able to find you a suitable partner for new ventures, should we stay for the season. ”

“ Isn’t it lovely to hear such good news?” the sarcasm was heavy in Raoul’s voice. “Wouldn’t it be triumphal to see my Christine back on stage? What a dream it would be if you were to finish the performance this time.”

He stood up, staring at her figure, buried deep within the covers of their bed. “Isn’t this enough, Christine?” he pleaded, walking to her side and dropping to his knees. “Can’t you see you’re yearning for the wrong thing? This, this fantasy of yours, it’s just a distraction.”

“ Raoul, what are you saying?”

“My darling wife, my little lotte, don’t frown at me – I know we’ve been unlucky, denied of the chance of having our own little family,” he gently rubbed her sides, her arms, as if comforting a child. “But that is something we must confront with our heads high, not buried in fantasy. Let’s enjoy our home, our friends, our simple lives.”

“If I had been a mother, I would have given birth singing,” Christine whispered. “My husband, please take your chances, or I will be forced to take them for you.”

She closed her eyes, and felt him shuffle briefly on his feet before pressing a soft kiss on her forehead. With a heavy sigh, he closed the door behind him, leaving her to sleep alone for the night. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Note that I based the 10 thousand franc salary on pure speculation. Rent in Paris for the rich was around the 1,500 francs + in the 1870s so I just went with less than 10 times that. I found some figures of the time suggesting that dowries from not so rich noblewomen would be around that as well. I have no idea how much a soprano would be paid.  
> * By 1875 there was a transatlantic telegraph cable between Lisbon and Brazil, effectively communicating Europe to South America. A map from 1901 shows that there's several lines connecting Brazil to Montevideo and Buenos Aires. It's worth remembering that 1890-1900 were times of massive changes in mass media and communications. Lumiere's first film was filmed in 1895. Dracula is a good example of how the second part of the 19th Century was buzzing with societal responses to this new, accelerated way of life. I imagine for a cosmopolitan Belle Epoque Parisian like the Chagnys the idea of relying on letters alone was old-school, kind of like sending SMS messages instead of snapchatting.


	3. The prima donna arrives

_**A reknown talent arrives from Europe** _

_On the eve of the 12 th of February madame CHRISTINE DE CHAGNY arrived at our shores with her husband, monsieur Vicomte RAOUL DE CHAGNY. The distinguished opera singer, known for her performances at the Opera Garnier in Paris, will grace Buenos Aires with her talents for the opening of the Colón Theatre on the 25th of May._

_-_

_**A MOST WARM WELCOME WAS HELD** _ for the Vicomte and Vicomtesse DE CHAGNY, recently arrived from Paris, at the  headquarters of the Alliance Francaise on the afternoon of the 16 th . A most distinguished party assembled to meet with the couple, including Mr. Dalmiro Varela Castex,  Countess Anchorena,  Mrs. Magdalena Magnone Blaquier, and Mrs Inés Dorreteguy de Álzaga Unzué. Madame De Chagny was exquisitely dressed with the latest Paris fashion, and she was greatly admired by the ladies present.  As a gesture of her eagerness to please her new acquaintances she delighted them with two brief samples of what is to be expected of her performance at the opening of the new Colón Theatre, to be held on the occasion of the commemoration of the May Revolution. 

-

“ Pastel shades do carry a certain dignity that merit their use in those rooms one is most likely to frequent, I must say. Perhaps with the exception of the evening room, where one entertains, which ought to be a bit more lively, such tones as beige and pale yellow are very adequate...”

The afternoon waned. The accent being the only difference (it was, after all, a second or third language for many of the educated ladies and gentlemen) there was little change to what she might expect to hear from her acquaintances in Paris.  A certain Mrs. Unzué was sitting across from her, delicately holding a tea cup as she gave everyone what she believed to be a lesson in color matching in interior decoration. An expert in traversing in and out of any social circle, Mrs. Unzué had successfully insinuated herself into a tentative friendship with the newly arrived Vicomtesse, bringing her three closest cohorts in tandem. 

“I haven’t done anything to it, yet,” Christine finally admitted. “Monsieur Dormal was kind enough to arrange its lease before we arrived. We haven’t had time to review the furnishings properly. Hiring the new staff and coordinating with the staff we brought from Paris has taken more time than I expected...  this city moves at its own pace, doesn’t it? ”

“ It does indeed. I find it so chaotic nowadays!” exclaimed Mrs.  Díaz Velez. “It used to be that an entire afternoon would be spent calling on someone, that one would take an hour to get to the Jockey Club, and it could be spent reading, or catching up on the news... Now everything happens so fast, what with cars thundering down the streets,  and all these people coming in... ”

“ Europe gives us her hungry, we take them with a smile,” smiled Mrs. Unzué, with what could be a hint of a smirk. “But these are auspicious times, Vicomtesse, pay no mind what the  newspapers say.  _ Paz y administración _ , into the new century. A land of opportunities awaits an esteemed gentlewomen like yourself, educated and with all the portents of good birth.”

“I don’t understand, what do the newspapers say?”

“They tell us of the follies of the poor,” drawled her third guest. She had a heavy, dark stare that made her look entirely disinterested in her surroundings. “Socialists and anarchists have made the ignorant leave behind all christian virtues. Like a fever it has spread through the masses, filling their heads with hatred for their land, for the  land owners. ”

“You may hear of them at some point, ” explained Mrs. Unzué further. “The _radicals_ have gathered all the troublemakers under their wing. They recruit them as soon as they’re out of the boats. A week before your arrival, Vicomtesse, they even took the vicepresident hostage.”

A laugh cut through the warm afternoon as the lively Mrs. Unzué reacted to Christine’s shocked look. “Never you mind, Vicomtesse, for this is still an infant of a country. It’s very restless and it cries often, but it seldom means more than a mere tantrum. The vicepresident was released within a day, and the perpetrators were all apprehended.”

“Never a dull moment,” their disinterested friend agreed.

As the evening approached, the tea cups were cleared by Christine’s maid and the three guests departed. She was promised several afternoons worth of chaperoned visits to Mrs. Unzué’s favourite furniture dealers, who she said, “were more than capable of satisfying her Parisian taste”. She supposed that, in lieu of her husband’s continued absence, she would have to step in in his place.

Had it not been for the mess of the sheets left on his side of the bed every morning, Christine would’ve thought Raoul had deserted her. He was gone as soon as the sun rose, and would only come back home late into the night, well after she’d retired. Whatever business he’d acquired, it had been after the visit of one of their newfound acquaintances, Mr. Pellegrini, who’d called on them a day after their introduction on the Alliance Francaise soiree. Christine was entirely unaware of the particulars of that venture that seemed to require of him both day and night, but her ignorance at her husband’s commercial affairs was hardly a novelty in their marriage.

Christine played the dutiful wife with sheepishness. A part of her that aimed to always please felt regret at having torn her husband away from his comfortable Parisian life, and so it did penance by entertaining her guests and taking care of the tasks a wife should take care of. If she could’ve had a moment of her husband’s time, she wouldn’t have mentioned the theater; she would’ve inquired after his business, if it was going well, and what color he’d have liked their chambers to be decorated in. There was, however, a planned obsolesce for that dutiful spouse, which would disappear the moment a certain letter, or a certain visit, arrived.

A fortnight after their arrival, Raoul and her finally sat down for dinner together.

“All is going well,” he replied to her excitedly when she inquired after that mysterious affair that had taken over his life. “I’ve been running back and forth, looking for a translator and a notary. Monsieur Jaures has been a true gentleman throughout all. They estimate we could be sending two hundred mares a year!”

“Raoul,” Christine looked at him as if he’d said absolute nonsense, trying to impress upon him that he had, in fact, spoken nonsense to her. She received a blank stare as an answer, which went on for longer than any of them would’ve wanted, before Raoul realized his mistake.

“Oh!,” he cried, slapping his thigh in an exaggerated fashion before blushing fiercely. “I am the worst husband, I am. I’ve run around all week not even gracing you with a morning kiss, all the while leaving you completely in the dark as to the purpose of my absence.”

He made sure to clean his mouth and chin before pushing his plate aside. “Monsieur Pellegrini and I had an extensive chat over horse breeding at the soireé we attended. I’d mentioned to him I’d become associated with a number of gentlemen from England who were regular polo players, although I’ve never played the game myself. Monsieur Pellegrini assures me that there’s quite the number of aficionados in this town, and that there’s a very profitable, if under exploited, business venture in breeding horses for the sport. He owns a number of ranches in the country, and had been looking for a business partner for a while to help him establish trade with Europe.”

“I’ve been paraded around some of his properties, at least the ones we can travel to and fro within the day. We’ve been to his gentleman’s club at the Jockey Club”, Raoul smiled, wide and bright. That boyish countenance she’d fallen in love with reappeared as the man barely made the effort to contain his enthusiasm. “I must say, it’s been an exciting week unlike anything I remember in recent history... and I think I let it get the best of me. Accept my apologies, darling!”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to apologize while smiling,” Christine replied, with a smile of her own. “You must be contrite. But, I will let it slide,” and in a more serious tone she added: “I’m happy that this land has shown you some promise. I was afraid, I have to confess, that you’d not even bother...”

“I was a bit... wary, I will admit. But, old and haggard as I am, perhaps it’s not too late for me to drop my expectations... People here are very courteous and welcoming, and they even have an adequate french,” Raoul nodded to himself, and Christine laughed. “What about yourself? I hear you’ve been busy at the furniture shops. How do you find your new friends?”

“Very helpful, indeed. They’re kind enough to broaden their discussion outside of the realm of fashion, as they insist on teaching me the who’s who of local politics. I can’t say their efforts are having much success.”

“You needn’t worry too much,” Raoul waved away her concerns. “Men can take care of politics. You should start planning a soiree for the coming weeks, maybe with the help of...”

“Mrs. Unzué, Mrs. Díaz Velez and... ” supplied Christine, embarrassed to admit that despite having spent a few afternoons with the group she still couldn’t quite place the name of half of them. “their friends.”

“Yes, splendid! I met two fellows going by those names at the Jockey Club. Maybe we can gather...? I say we could entertain six couples, although we’d need to refurbish the dining room. The chairs, as they are, look rather shabby...”

Christine let Raoul ramble on. His animated demeanor was a relief to her. Their journey to the new continent had been a tense one, punctuated by an almost pathological avoidance of the purpose for their traveling. Peace between them had been fragile, supported only by the distractions of cruise amusements and the obligations of maintaining a certain facade in front of company. As disconcerting as it had been to see him swept up by local acquaintances a day after their reception, it’d also been a relief to her to see herself freed from his company, if only so that tension could naturally dissipate.

Her husband began putting together lists of invitations as he spoke, plucking dates out of thin air for a potential event. A certain sense of dread began to creep up on Christine, as she knew it was high time a certain topic was breached. Raoul, noticing the change in her expression, reached out to touch her arm as if to encourage her to speak her mind. She feared that the mention of their sole reason for being in that country would ruin his mood.

“I’ve been holding off on organizing anything, darling, as I haven’t heard from Monsieur Dormal yet, and do not know my rehearse schedule yet.”

She received a blank look in response. Neutrally, Raoul asked, “have you written to him?”

“Yes, on the morning after our arrival.”

“That is mighty rude of him, to leave you waiting for a week and a half,” Raoul said, and made a sign to their the maid to take away their plates. “Well, some of the fellows I’ve talked to seem to know him. Perhaps they have some sort of explanation for this.”

Christine rose, letting a soft sigh take away her worries. Perhaps Mr. Pellegrini’s business had been heaven sent, a true sign of a compromise she meant to take full advantage of. Raoul had nothing to reproach her for so far: the opportunities she’d enticed him with had reared their head, a lucky portent of what could come after.

Aristóteles, their new butler, came into the room. “Sir, madame, apologies, but this letter has just arrived. It’s addressed to the madame.”

Wife and husband shared a look. Christine took the letter from the man and thanked him. “Well, speak of the devil...” she uttered. “It’s from Monsieur Dormal.”

_Esteemed Vicomtesse De Chagny,_

_I most humbly apologize for the lateness in my response. I will endeavor to provide some sort of explanation that I hope will be satisfactory to you: in lieu of the lack of local talent we set our sights on a number of proficient musicians to fill the required positions at the orchestra, with various degrees of success. Sadly, several incidents of the nature that seem to plague the entertainment business have hindered their arrival, and we’ve been running against the clock to solve all issues and ensure everyone is assembled before rehearsals start._

_I am happy to confirm that now we do count with a full orchestra, and thus have scheduled the start of rehearsals on Tuesday the 3rd March. On the back of this letter I’ve listed down the schedule for your stage calls, fittings, etc. An additional libretto with some further modifications will be sent in the next few days._

_I once again wish to apologize in behalf of myself and the rest of the theater, and will be looking forward to welcoming you on Tuesday. Do not hesitate to write me should you require any assistance._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Jules Dormal._

“The rehearsals start next Tuesday,” breathed Christine.

“Off to a promising start, isn’t it?” commented Raoul, arching an eyebrow, as he scanned over the letter in his wife’s hands. “They’ve just assembled their musicians.”

“The opening night is three months away. There’s plenty of time to prepare,” argued Christine. “In fact, I’d think starting rehearsals next week is a bit early...” she turned the page around, scanning through the schedule. “I have to be in for fittings only, and then sessions with coaches. I’m not even in for a stage call until late march.”

“The prima donna knows best,” he replied simply, and kissed her cheek before retiring to his study. “Before you’re swept away by your music, perhaps you’d like to go to Mr. Pellegrini’s country house this weekend?”

“Certainly,” Christine agreed easily, her mind already filled with the dazzling brightness of the stage lights.

-

“In this country Verdi has a special place in people’s hearts, Vicomtesse,” Monsieur Dormal happily chatted away as the modiste took Christine’s measurements beyond the ornate screen. “La Traviata was the first opera ever performed in the old theater. Aida will open this one.”

“Was the first theater much different?”

“Oh, it can’t hold a candle to this one, certainly! The acoustics in this theater I dare say are unlike anything you’ve ever heard!” the man exclaimed proudly. “Granted, the old one was adequate from what I hear, but it wasn’t built with care for the particularities of the art... the lights posed a terrible fire risk, and the whole thing was simply a catastrophe waiting to happen.”

Christine smiled as the architect expanded on the safety measures that had been built into the new building. He was an altogether different man from the one she remembered, and were it not that his appearance was exactly the same, she’d have thought him an impostor. He was a short man widely built; he dressed in a fashion that was two decades old, and this for any other man would’ve been a sign of neglect and poverty, but in him it simply exuded a certain charming air of aloofness. She’d remembered him being a serious man with a real passion for music, but had found that in the New World he’d morphed into an excitable gentleman with an easy smile. He’d almost fallen to her feet upon seeing her, apologizing profusely for his rude behaviour the previous week, and had seemed genuinely delighted when she helped him up and told him it was all fine.

How could it not be? Christine was at the opera again. She could hear wisps of notes slipping through the cracks of the building as she’d walked to the dressing rooms. Even now, as some in the orchestra gathered to practice their parts, she could hear bits and pieces of their phrasing. The melodies melted into her skin, infecting her with a disease that life had tried hard to inoculate her from; it was exhilarating, filling her with the expectation of feeling once again the music taking flight from her, into her.

She’d never uttered it in her prayers, yet here it was, her wish fulfilled. She would sing again.

Christine had lost track of what her benefactor had been saying. The modiste’s hands had been a constant anchoring point for her mind, forcing her to stay firmly on the ground, even if she was slowly venturing up into her own musings. When the seamstress’ work was done, and the hands and the measuring tape disappeared from her body, there was nothing else to hold her in place. And so, she let herself roam free. Waiting for her was an entire repertoire of arias she’d have to perform: one suggested itself, and taking it by the arm, she begun to softly recite it.

It was Aida, asking Radames to flee with her. Her voice rose, desperately pleading with her lover, promising a brighter future in a land where they could be together... “ _Su noi gli astri brilleranno,_ _d_ _i più limpido fulgor..._ ”

A noise startled her. Excited clapping from the other sign of the screen arose to interrupt her song, and she blushed, keenly aware she’d rudely launched herself into song whilst her interlocutor was trying to have a conversation. She quickly made herself presentable, and walked around the screen.

“I’m terribly sorry, Monsieur Dormal, I didn’t mean to interrupt you so rudely,” she said. “I... oh, I know this is a terrible excuse, but my good monsieur, I haven’t had the pleasure of being in an opera for  _ so long _ . I just...you wouldn’t believe how much I missed this.”

She was almost in tears by the time she finished. The architect, however, had taken no offense; on the contrary, he seemed deeply moved by her sentiment. “Had I harboured any doubts you were the right fit for our gala, they’d have been dealt with right here and now. I said it on the occasion of our first meeting madame, I will say it again: there are few operas I enjoyed or remembered more than the  _ Hannibal _ you starred at the Opera Garnier. I am a lucky man only because I will see you perform again.”

Christine blushed, unaccustomed to such compliments. “I am in your debt, Monsieur Dormal. I will forever call you a dear friend.”

“Regardless, I feel guilty about letting my head wander as you were imparting your wisdom about this building we’re meant to honour,” she insisted. “Can I trouble you to continue the earlier conversation?”

“Oh, it was just an old man’s ramblings,” the architect said sheepishly. “Perhaps we could walk around the building, and I shall tell you everything I know.”

“That would be delightful.”

The theater was, as one would expect from an entertainment venue of that caliber, complete and utter chaos. Contributing to it were two main factions: the craftsmen who were still giving the finishing touches to the building, and the theater staff, who were planning and preparing for the stage. Backdrops and props needed to be designed and crafted, costumes sown. Lighting needed to be prepared and fitted, and then expertly maneuvered so that it would complement the work of the singers on stage.  The reality of theater was that a nything but hectic was a deviation from normal. 

Christine soaked it all up. She was but a wanderer from a desert who’d finally arrived at the oasis: she swam in its waters, drank from them. She stood at the edge of the well and saw her own reflection for the first time in many years, feeling like she’d almost forgot what she was like, who she really was. In that theater she was once again Christine Daeé, not Vicomtesse De Chagny. 

“It’s a shame that your first taste of the acoustics has to be from the sounds of simple chatter,” lamented Monsieur Dormal as they walked through the aisles of the ground floor, examining the stage from the front. “My associate is incredibly proud of the design, and would be aghast to know that you saw it  perform under circumstances as mundane as this.. .”

“On the contrary, I think it serves to  showcase its excellence...  w hen it can make regular chatter sound so particular.”

“You’re very kind,  vi comtesse.”

“In between these walls I am simply Christine Daeé, Monsieur.  A vicomtesse doesn’t sing,” Christine smiled. “I have to admit I didn’t know you had an associate. I assume you were both part of the project?”

“Ah, well, that is an interesting story...” the architect replied nervously. “I have to admit, the bigger credit should go to him. He’s got a terrific genius. But I am uniquely equipped to deal with the bureaucracy. We found that our strengths were particularly matched.”

“I hope I can meet him at some point.”

“Well... he’s a very private, peculiar man. It’s a herculean task to even wrench him away from his study. I wouldn’t want you to feel that it was some sort of personal dislike that kept him from introducing himself, madame.”

“We all have our quirks, Monsieur,” replied Christine, shrugging. “This is the Opera, after all. But thank you for the warning. I will simply have to trust you to relay my thanks to him for allowing me to make use of this incredible theater.”

Monsieur Dormal perked up; after he assured her that he’d pass her message along, they concluded their tour by visiting the backstage. As they moved around the mess of stage hands and carpenters moving about, a fleeting memory wandered into Christine’s mind: a similar scene, only an ocean and ten years away. It emerged as a stark contrast to what she’d known since – and then she had a terrible feeling, almost like she had awoken from a dream showing her a life where day after day she woke up in someone else’s home, living someone else’s life.

“I wish I could visit every day,” she murmured under her breath. Even if the sound of her voice was lost in the chaos that surrounded them, her wish must’ve partially reached her benefactor’s ears, for he asked her to speak up. “Oh, never mind my impatience, monsieur. I am simply impatient to start with my rehearsals. This is all so wonderful to me, so nostalgic. I just wish I had an excuse to visit here every day.”

Monsieur Dormal hummed thoughtfully.

“Well, a room with a piano might be out of the question for now as we’re still waiting for some instruments to arrive from Europe... but you’re welcome to one of the many rooms, should you want a space to practice your parts,” he smiled. “I, for one, would certainly welcome your voice as a necessary respite from all this infernal noise.”

Christine flashed him a bright smile. “That’d be wonderful, monsieur. Thank you so much!”


	4. A Chance Encounter

“The _señora_ looks a bit young, doesn’t she?”

Carolina was thankful that summer was nearing its end. A cool breeze, a portent of the early March autumnal days, was a delight for a laundress who had to wrestle with cotton or linen sheets under the midday sun. She looked at her companion, María, and replied in a heavily accented spanish: “Aye, she does. What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” María went on merrily, happy to tell the story she’d come up with regarding her new employers. “I’d think a young couple like them would bring their child with them... They’re not newlyweds, that much is certain – else, they’d be all over each other! So you’d look at them and think they have one, two, five children of their own... Like my previous mistress, María de las Mercedes, she had eight! And she was only twenty five. But I heard from the butcher that apparently one of the footmen said to him that they master is thirty-three years of age, and the mistress is only five years his junior...”

“So, then I thought to myself, maybe she was married very young, and they have a child old enough to be going into one of them fancy colleges in Europe... he could be fifteen, or sixteen...”

“She’s never had a child,” Carolina replied tiredly. María could be a lovely girl, someone who always brightened a sad day with some nonsense phrase or another, but if there was a hobby she loved to indulge in was hearing herself talk. And Carolina, being of the kind that prefered self-reflection and silence, naturally found herself quickly losing patience with her friend.

“Eh? How can you be so sure?”

“A woman’s body is never the same after a pregnancy. When you’re with child yourself you’ll see: your breasts will never be as firm, your belly will sag and marks will appear on your skin.”

“Oh,” María wasn’t happy her musings had been so clearly dismissed. “That doesn’t make sense then. Aren’t they some sort of nobility? Aren’t they meant to have children?”

“Bah, nobility!” Carolina exclaimed, “I’ve seen more _principese e duca_ in the boats that brought us here than in their castles. Those titles can’t even buy you a loaf of bread nowadays.”

“But these ones have money...”

“Nobody would cross that damned ocean if they weren’t struggling in some way or another,” Carolina stood up, trying to alleviate the pain in her back from bending over the tin buckets all morning. “They might not be washing laundry... for now. But look at the _señora_ , gone all day like her husband, to perform at a theatre. What else could keep her away from her place at home but _money_? Rich women need only entertain guests and have children.”

-

She’d settled into an easy routine. Three mornings a week, she’d break her fast with Mrs. Unzué, or in her absence, Mrs. Alvear, Mrs. Palacios or one of her friends at the cafe appropriately named ‘Paris’, on the intersection of Talcahuano and Charcas St. This would leave her only a short five block walk away from the Colón Theatre. Having received Monsieur Dormal’s blessings, she’d reserved for herself one of the dressing rooms facing south, barely a few meters from the double doors leading to the stage. 

It was universally acknowledged that relaxation and peace was conducive for a good performance; the voice worked like any other muscle, working best when it was without additional stresses. Warming up by way of lip thrills, humming, vowel vocalizations and other such methods was one way of preparing the voice for what it was about to do; another equally important task was to take care of the mind and the body, so that these would not be thwarted  by an attack of nerves. Understandably so, Monsieur Dormal had expressed his doubts at Christine’s insistence of taking that particular dressing room, where the sound of the hustle and bustle of the ongoing construction works was a permanent background fixture. Christine, however, had had ten years of training in the Chagny household, and had developed a way of imposing her will without anything more than a smile and a few empty words. As blossoming and fresh their acquaintance had been, they were not at the point where Christine felt like she had to reveal her reasons to him. They threaded thoughts that she’d not even shared with her husband in their entire marriage. 

Perhaps chalking it up to the whims of the prima donna, Monsieur Dormal had agreed with a small shrug and had let her be, checking in on her every few days to make sure she was comfortable enough. So she kept to herself that she only felt relaxed when she was surrounded by the excited chattering of a theatre that was ready to perform; that she’d spent ten years in a house surrounded by a silence that was only broken by the comings and goings of demure servants.  Had she been left to live in a mausoleum, she was sure she would’ve hardly noticed the difference; perhaps under ground at least she could’ve been allowed to sing more often. 

Her grand house in Paris was but a dream, now that she was back in a dressing room, feeling almost like the same chorus girl that had pranced around the  _Opera Populaire_ fifteen years prior. As she settled into her practice, she started by memorising her songs, then practising their performance. She thought where to turn her head, how to move her arms; she looked at herself in the mirror day in and day out, transfiguring herself into the title character of the opera. She left behind small notes in a hurried, airy writing, detailing her ideas for the performance. 

Her excitement was so encompassing that it almost overcame the little voice in her head that insisted on haunting her with visions of the past. She couldn’t blame herself; it was almost an inevitability that her mind would wander to her time in the Paris Opera, when a voice would speak from beyond her mirror, instructing her in the ways of what she was doing now.  She knew she could see him in her notes, hear him in the comments she’d mumble to herself as she stopped midway through a flat phrase seeking a way to liven it. Despite her performing with her father for a long time, her musical language was entirely Erik’s. 

Had she been younger, perhaps she would’ve found that to be a disturbing realization. But time had softened some of the edges in her memories, and a newfound appreciation had been borne from her heart for the craft of her Angel of Music. The artist in her recognised the brilliance in his teachings. The silence in her grand house had buried a lot of the fear and anger underneath mountains of dust; ten years later there wasn’t much left to rummage around in. 

-

“ Vicomtesse, I have to confess I invited you over today with an ulterior motive, ”  said Mrs. Diaz Velez over their weekly afternoon tea. They were at the elegant petit chateau that Mrs. Diaz Velez’s had recently bought, gathered with other five women. Christine was embarrassed to note she couldn’t remember any of their names. 

“Mrs. Pellegrini’s niece recently arrived from her tour, I’m sure you’ve heard. She came over for dinner yesterday and told us the most riveting stories from her stay in Paris. The salon life! Oh my, just hearing stories about it fills me with embarrassment; in comparison you must find us all so very dull, Victomtesse.”

“Not at all, madame. I’m afraid Salons were not my preferred choice of gathering. If anything I rather like how tranquil social life is in this country.”

Mrs. Diaz Velez nodded with a polite smile; it was clear the point of the conversation wasn’t Christine’s thoughts on Salon culture. “I understand. Our darling girl, interestingly enough, confessed she heard your name in conversation. You’re well remembered. I’m sure you’ll be receiving many missives asking about your adventures here. But – from what Miss  Lavalle pieced together for us, it does seem it will pale in comparison to your past work in the Opera Populaire. ”

Christine would’ve sighed had she been in friendlier company. She’d wondered how long it’d take for her to be forced to repeat her party trick in the new world, and she was only marginally disappointed that it’d taken slightly longer than a month. She plastered on the same smile she’d perfected over the years and placed her cup back on the  plate. 

“Ah – it seems you’ve stumbled onto the story of the Phantom of the Opera,” she said, and immediately her audience gasped excitedly, shifting in their seats in anticipation of her tale. Such mystery in the title, such promise of horror and thrill. Christine went through the motions almost mindlessly; pausing at the same spots she’d always pause at, dropping her smile delicately at the tense moments, picking it up back again when the great hero Raoul came to her rescue. 

At the end of it, spanish-style fans were outstretched and waving animatedly; it almost felt like the chatter of a crowd after the theatre, women huddling together to discuss what they’d just seen, sharing opinions on its execution, fantasizing about motives and alternate endings. Mrs. Diaz Velez was animatedly asking her to expand on several points of the story, her sense of propriety almost forgotten. Christine let herself be dragged from conversation into conversation like a ragged doll, once more allowing her audience tear through her memories to pick at the scraps of her adrenaline. 

By the time they let her go, it was well into the evening. The next day Raoul and her were journeying with Mrs. Unzue to stay the weekend at the latter’s country house. Christine had intended to retrieve the libretto she’d left in her dressing room so that she could work on her performance while Mrs. Unzue tended to her duties at her state. She decided to go ahead and pay a late night visit to the empty theatre, sending a messenger boy ahead of her to warn her husband she’d be coming home late. 

As she stepped off the carriage, she breathed in the cool, fresh autumn air with a silent delight. It had rained lightly in the afternoon  and the cobblestones were damp, giving off a soft, earthly scent.  She waved at the concierge, who let her in with a polite smile as she mentioned the reason for her late visit. Providing her with a lamp, he let her make her way through the theatre alone. 

Christine was no stranger to a theatre after hours; sh e had always thought it was when it was at its most magical, with its hallways covered in glittering shadows, chandeliers softly waving in the breeze, bits and pieces of whispers from the streets snaking around the rafters. She opened her dressing room as she hummed lightly an old swedish folk song her father used to sing to her. She spotted her libretto sitting where she’d left it, near the big vanity dominating the room. On top of it someone had left a single red rose.

The song died in her throat. It was as if someone had taken a hold of her heart in their palm, and had suddenly squeezed it with all their might. Christine closed her eyes for a moment; her mind was replaying fantasies buried in a Paris opera a long time ago.  She swallowed the lump in her throat;  she was jumping to conclusions. It could’ve been a gesture from Monsieur Dormal, or perhaps one of the italian construction boys she’d shared food with. She took the single rose and the libretto in one hand, the lamp in the other and began to make her way back.

Across the hall from her dressing room emerged a soft melody.  Christine stopped in her tracks, eyes wide, hands barely trembling.  Monsieur Dormal had mentioned the day before that one of the pianos they’d commissioned had finally arrived, that it had been placed in one of the rooms next to the stage, sharing a hallway with the dressing rooms. Perhaps, anxious to get their hands on it, one of the orchestra’s pianists was spending their evening rehearsing?

She gathered her courage and walked towards the sound. It echoed hauntingly in the empty building, each lingering note crawling as far as it could reach. It wasn’t any of the pieces that were to be part of the opening performance.  It wasn’t from any opera or concerto that Christine could recognise.  It had a distinctive signature, one that with a firm grasp of the known had taken a step out of time and had transformed itself into something most people, including her, would barely be able to understand. It was a sound that had been born in a hidden lake beneath the ground, emerging from ice and despair like a Dantean souvenir.  In its most amiable form, she’d once sung something quite close to it. Don Juan Triumphant, however, was still a mere bud compared to this, a fully grown tree. Christine felt its branches scratching against her cheeks – she reached out and opened the door. 

The pianist had her back to her. A candelabra had been placed on top of the piano, giving enough light to guide him to his keys but not enough to separate his figure from the surrounding darkness. The red carpet was lush and fresh under her feet, muffling the sound of her uncertain steps. Perhaps the secrecy was unnecessary: the musician was absorbed in his performance, his figure pouring over his instrument with the care of a father who was cradling his firstborn for the first time. It was a different experience, now that she was facing it rather than hiding in the hallway: even in the darkness it was evident the gold fittings were freshly gilded and the cherub’s faces were shiny and amicable. The room smelt like fresh patina, drying stucco, rabbit skin glue. It made it all so much easier to find the hidden sweetness in the music, in that room of new beginnings, even if she wasn’t able to fully understand it. 

She wasn’t surprised when she caught sight of a porcelain mask, glittering gingerly in the light of the candelabra.  Was it meant to happen all over again? Was she again to be chained over their shared love for music, a prize for his torment? If she approached him and removed his mask, would she be thrown into the deepest pits of hell as Delilah?

And, how would it differ from a fate chained to the salons in Paris?

She took a single step forward. 

“Erik,” she said, softly enough that it could’ve been lost in the waves of that spellbinding concerto, but firm enough that it could be found by someone who was looking for it. For her. 

The music came to a screeching halt, keys unceremoniously hit by shaken hands. The pianist stood seated, back straightening as he searched the silence for confirmation. There was one intake of breath and then a soft sigh before Christine heard a question in the form of her name. 

“So it was you who called me here,”  she said simply. “It’s been ten years.”

And she had counted every minute of them. They had eroded away her grief and anger, turning big castles of emotion into little pebbles. Her heart was like a desert, peaceful and unflinching, with the certainty that a thousand years of men’s scuffles could shape a dent in their dunes for a day, but all would eventually succumb to the engulfing sands. 

She knew then that she would not be going back to Paris. She knew that she would not tell Raoul who her benefactor was. The opera was to her like the whistling in the wind before the sandstorm, a moment where stillness abandons the desert and life reaches for a second chance. Even if she had to take it from the hands of a ghost, she would gladly seize the opportunity of escaping her Parisian mausoleum. 

“I… hadn’t expected to see you so soon, ”  Erik, once Phantom of the Opera Garnier and now architect of the Teatro Col ón,  said as he slowly stood up. He was disarmed, nervous. Christine noticed his hand went up to his face for a split second, touching the mask to ensure it was in place before he turned. 

“You left me a rose.”

“ I tried my hardest, throughout the years, to ensure that my memory of your singing wouldn’t dim, that I would be able to replay every inflection of your voice with the utmost fidelity… and yet when you came to rehearse, I found that all I had had until then were poor copies, like a newspaper print of a Michelangelo…” With his back to he light, his face was covered in shadows, yet his eyes seemed as vibrant as she’d remembered them before. “I apologise if it caused you grief. I meant no harm, just a token of appreciation from an old fool.”

How strange was it, that once he’d seemed so tall, almost impossibly so, and now he looked just like a man. How strange that once he’d seemed ethereal, when like blended with like and he was part shadow part phantom, and now he was there, so present, within arms reach... how strange indeed that once she’d seen him with the eyes of a child who had just grown into an adult, and now she could see him as a woman. Gone was her angel of music, long buried underneath the swampy lakes beneath a Paris theatre.

And yet, the music remained. “Act one, _ritorna vincitor,_ ” Christine offered. “Do you know the arrangement?”

It was a rhetorical question, they both were aware. Despite his lamentations, he had a prodigious memory. He stared at her for a moment, eyes scrutinizing her face. Christine was unmoving, patiently w aiting for his reaction.  She had once been a youthful airy thing, capable of being swept away by the slightest suggestion; where he led she had followed. And now… 

He sat back in front of the piano. Excitement was building in his chest. He closed his eyes, and let his body slowly shape the music that Christine would give life to. 

“ _Dunque scordar poss'io questo fervido amore_ _  
_ _Che, oppressa e schiava,_ _  
_ _Come raggio di sol qui mi beava?”_

It had been one thing to wrestle the notes of Christine’s voice away from the chaos of the construction going on around them; as laboriously as he plucked each inflection of her singing from the pigsty it was thrown in, he knew it would hardly have the impact of the pure sound. And now that he was face to face with it once again, it was difficult for the greediest parts of himself not to leap out to take it as his own. Her voice was not quite the one he’d left in the underground beneath the Opera Garnier; it had taken on a peculiar quality, no doubt the product of her own work away from the meddling hand of her teacher. It sounded full and rich in places where the young Christine would’ve floundered, soft and vulnerable where the imagination of the prima donna required it to be. Despite the years away from the stage, her voice was fresh and full of emotion, and it danced around the room with the same ease that any other  touring soprano could muster. 

It was a welcome surprise, one that he had barely time to savour before it was over. As the aria finished, his mind frantically raced to find an excuse for them to continue. Could he simply leap into the next song? Would she follow? What would he do if she turned around, leaving a lonely piano with the ghost of the lyrics it was meant to accompany? 

Cowardice claimed his fingers, which refused to move after they had landed on the last notes. He stayed where he was, feeling like everything he’d been aching to say to her after those ten years had been lost somewhere in between the keys of his instrument. Christine noticed and took pity; he felt the shuffling of her dress and the soft steps on the carpet before he saw the red rose laid on top of the piano, balancing delicately on one of the corners. 

The gesture made his heart drop. “It’s a token of appreciation,” she said, and he sneaked a glance to see a tentative smile on her face. “For the music, and for the theatre. You must be the associate that Monsieur Dormal told me about. You built this place – it’s beautiful. And I’m happy I can sing for the opening.”

“Y-you…” he stammered, “are you not angry at me? That you were brought here under false pretences?” 

“False pretences? I was offered the leading role on the opening night of the theatre, wasn’t I? And that’s what I’m here to do,”  Christine answered simply. “We’re past the smoke and mirrors at this point, Erik. I want to sing, and sing is what I’ll do.”

There were a few choice sentences that could’ve filled him with the sort of happiness  _those_ words gave him, but as light and soft her voice was, there was an edge of steel in her gaze. They weren’t writing on a blank slate. What would follow would be full of conditionals, of bridges he’d have to learn to spot before he crossed them. In spite of the silent warning he was given, he almost felt giddy. She wasn’t offering a second chance, but it still felt like one for him. 

“I’d be obliged if you allowed me to help with your rehearsal.  That is, if you’ll have me. ”

It was clear she’d expected his invitation. An old wariness crept upon her face. “No need to answer now,” he hurried to say. “I only want to be of help. I wouldn’t want to impose myself should this be inconvenient to you.”

“I… am going to spend the weekend away at an acquaintance’s house with my husband. I’ll think about it then.”

Erik nodded, and took the rose she’d offered him back. “When you’re ready, leave a note with your answer here.”

Christine’s eyes fluttered towards the hand he had rested on top of the piano. She nodded at him, “until then,” she said. “Have a good evening.”

He watched her form disappear in the shadows of the hallway with a shaky breath. 


End file.
